Skin Deep
by Ida Expurgation
Summary: Six people in John's life that decide to get make-overs. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Angelo, Anderson, and Sherlock. Rated M for chapter 6.
1. Molly

Molly was nervous as she entered Bart's that morning. But this is nothing new. Molly had a history of habitual nervousness. For once, though, she felt entirely justified.

She enters the silent morgue and sets her purse on the chair by the door. She picks up the stack of folders on her desk and skims the reports tucked inside. Before long she is wandering over to the two new bodies, absorbed in the work. She doesn't even notice that her nervousness has melted away until four hours later when the doors to the morgue snap open with a dramatic flourish.

She looks up from her spot at the desk, heart suddenly jumping into her throat because _Oh god, oh god only one person walks into the morgue like that and did he notice yet? Oh god, don't stare, don't say something stupi-_

"...Molly?" Sherlock is frozen just inside the doorway, his face blank, his eyes wide and staring.

It strikes Molly just how unsure Sherlock sounds when he says her name, and as she rises from her chair she feels perversely satisfied by it. Good, let _him_ flounder in shock for once.

Of course Sherlock recovers quickly, and of _course_ the bastard doesn't mention anything after that. Molly can feel her artificial confidence plummet as the moment passes and five minutes later they are both elbow deep in a corpse when John walks in.

"Sherlock, they didn't have any...Christ!" John stops a few steps inside the door, staring at Molly. His eyebrows nearly jump to his hairline and his mouth freezes halfway open. The effect is comical and Molly giggles as her perverse satisfaction returns.

"Jesus...You look...," John trails off.

Molly runs her fingers through her short hair. It feels a bit stiff from all the product, sticking out at cute little angles and framing her jaw. She knows how flattering the bob is on her. She sports a pair of pink metal rimmed glasses as well, and they give her face quite the air of maturity. Deciding to go for broke, she had bought some new blouses to complete the new look – ones in deep, jewel colours with daring necklines.

The overall effect had seemed very sexy to Molly, and she had felt so confident that morning putting it all on.

John is still staring and next to her, Sherlock straightens with a frown.

"Come along John, I've found what I was looking for," Sherlock is brushing past Molly and tossing a pair of gloves in the bin. His coat billows as he strides past John and turns to wait at the door expectantly.

"You look great, Molly," John smiles and Molly smiles and it's just one of the best moments she can ever remember. "Really."

"Thanks, John."

"Come along John."

John sighs and does an about face, walking calmly through the doors. Molly watches as Sherlock hesitates, his body halfway out the door before he turns back with a quirk of the lips.

"Molly," It's just her name, but the way he says it makes her blush and she can't shake the unreasonable feeling that Sherlock is giving her a compliment.

"Sherlock."

The door swings shut behind him softly and for the first time that Molly can remember, her wide, toothy smile isn't faked at all.


	2. Mrs Hudson

John and Sherlock duck gingerly into the cab, shaking off the rain once inside. The windows are already beginning to steam over as Sherlock leans forward, giving the driver the address. Beside him, John runs a hand through his wet hair.

"Sherlock?"

"Hnn."

"Are you... wearing perfume?"

Sherlock turns slowly and pins John with a very unamused look.

"Really, John, you can be so disappointing. At times you demonstrate that your powers of observation have increased tenfold, and yet this is only half the work. If you do not couple keen observation with sound, logical reasoning then your conclusions will become... ridiculous." He continues to glare at John for a beat, before turning to look out the window.

"It was just a question! Jesus. It's not like you haven't dressed in drag before. Or what about that week you were trying on every kind of lipstick. That was-"

"Those were obviously experiments, John," Sherlock is glaring at him again. "I have no such time for erroneous tests as we are on a case."

"Well, all I'm saying is it's not _that_ illogical to think you'd wear perfume," John feels justified.

There is a moment where Sherlock glowers and John privately thinks that Sherlock can be a massive git, before Sherlock's expression smooths out.

"It is, in fact, Mrs. Hudson's new perfume, which would have been obvious to you, had you cared to pay attention to the state of the landing this morning."

"Sorry...the landing?"

"Yes," Sherlock leans forward, beginning to look animated. "Obviously the landing had been cleaned in the past 24 hours yet no bleach had been used, as is Mrs. Hudson's preference. Instead, a cleaning solution with a pungent floral aroma had been used in it's place. One can conclude from this fact that Mrs. Hudson was concerned with the smell lingering.

"Why? Because the smell of sodium hypochlorite concentrated bleach is notoriously difficult to rinse from one's skin. Furthermore, the door to 221a was locked when we left just now, even though it is four in the afternoon. We know her Bridge games meet on every other Thursdays and that she goes shopping on the weekends, so we can deduce that it was a personal engagement.

"Conclusion? Mrs. Hudson has a date and has purchased a new perfume for the occasion."

"But then why are you wearing it?" John looked entranced through the monologue.

"Really John," Sherlock sighed. "Pay attention. What can you tell from the state of my coat?"

John's eyes drifted downwards, taking in the Belstaff coat's lapels. Sherlock didn't give John time to look before he launched into an answer.

"The make-up, John! Smudged just here, leaving a faint imprint where Mrs. Hudson embraced me earlier in the evening, inadvertently transferring some of her make-up – and perfume – on me in the process."

There was a beat of silence between them as the rain pummeled the windows of the cab.

"Brilliant."

Sherlock couldn't have looked more like a cat purring if he had tried. He leaned back and turned to look out the window once more.

"Although," John began. "I do hope this new make-over of hers is for someone decent this time."

Sherlock snorted. "Really John, I never took you for the naive type."

Beside him, John sighed.


	3. Lestrade

John recognizes Lestrade as he walks through the door, and John leans out of the booth to flag him down. Molly and Sarah, are sitting next to him, Sally and her friend Tiffany are seated across.

Lestrade blows a warm puff of breath into his hands, then rubs them together. He stomps over to the table and he's almost sitting down before John notices something is different about the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade takes a seat and orders a pint from the server who's appeared to help the new arrival. When Lestrade turns towards the table in cheery greeting, he catches John's eye.

"What?"

John gets a funny look on his face. "Nothing, it's just... I don't think I've ever seen you in jeans before. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you in anything but a suit."

Sally laughs loudly. "You should 'ave seen him at the department Rugby match last year. Looked like a proper bloke 'n everythin, he did."

"Oi! I am a proper bloke."

"Suuuuure, mate."

"You always look like a bloke. Oh! I didn't mean it in a bad way though. Like, not a _bad_ bloke, just, you know, blokish?"

"Oh my God, Molly, could you _be_ cuter?"

"I don't- er- _what_?!-"

"Well, the new glasses _do_ help. How long have you worn those?"

The conversation continues down this path and it is loud and boisterous and swells in greeting when Dimmock joins them moments later. Outside it is unseasonably cold and windy, but inside the pub it is cheerfully warm and bright.

This is the first time they have all met like this outside of work, but John hopes it won't be the last. Everyone at the table looks so natural and carefree. His gaze comes to rest on Lestrade again and he smiles.

It isn't just the jeans. It isn't just the fact that there is no tie and no suit. It isn't even that his hair looks uncombed. There's something more to it, something in the wrinkles around his eyes when he laughs or in the lazy way he drinks from his beer.

He's relaxed, John realizes. For the first time since John has met him, Gregory Lestrade looks completely relaxed. It's as if the entire time John's known him, Lestrade has been suspended like a puppet on taught wires. Always tense and flighty, focused on work and stress. And seeing him here, it's as if someone has cut all the wires to leave Lestrade lazing in his chair, limbs slow and happy and free.

Lestrade catches John's eye and tilts his head in a silent question.

"It's nothing mate, it's just good to see you," John smiles. Lestrade smiles back.

Outside the chill sweeps and the wind howls, but inside, for this one moment, things are really, really okay.


	4. Angelo

John lounged against the side of the brick building, tired and aggravated. Sherlock had been such a salve to the boredom in his life, but occasionally (on nights such as this) he added to it.

It was dark on the street, and though it wasn't raining everything felt damp.

_[Can you see him yet?]_ Sherlock's voice buzzed in his left ear. John sighed and rolled his eyes upwards. He'd been watching the same door for the past hour, waiting for the drug lord (turned murderer) to turn up. Normally Sherlock would have been out there himself in disguise, but there had been a confrontation with the man yesterday.

Not only was Sherlock's arm now in a sling, the drug lord had gotten a good look at Sherlock's face. Not wanting to waste the whole night, John had somehow let himself get talked into surveillance duty in Sherlock's place.

For the past hour he had leaned against a wet brick wall under a street lamp, watching as rough looking men in leather jackets filed in and out of the seedy pub. And _still_ no sign of the damn drug lord.

"Sherlock, I'll let you know as _soon_ as I see him," John murmured into the microphone in his collar.

_[He will have a bodyguard with him tonight.]_

"I know, we went over this already."

_[You will likely miss him as you can't be trusted to know what to look for. He should have arrived by now. Describe to me everyone you can see.]_

John sighed. "It's been really quiet, Sherlock. Maybe he's not coming ton-"

_[He's coming. Describe what you see.]_

"Fine, fine," John squinted. "There's a woman leaning up against the wall, next to the window. She's only been there a moment. Leather skirt, heels-"

_[Hooker. Irrelevant. Next.]_

"Well, there's the one bloke who's smoking a cigarette. Third one so far tonight. Keeps going back inside after."

_[Hnn. Crack addict. Looking to score. Moving on.]_

"Crack addict? But you can't even see-"

_[Irrelevant. Moving on, John.]_

Another long-suffering sigh. "Well there is this one bloke sitting at a table inside. I've been wondering about him. Big black leather jacket, tattoos all down his neck and arm. Long black ponytail. Looks rough around the edges. He keeps looking out the window every so often and I think sometimes he might be watching me. Still...he doesn't look like anyone in the pictures you showed me."

_[He's unrelated. Irrelevant. Moving on.]_

"Sherlock," John admonished quietly. "He's probably the best candidate of anyone here. Oh, hang on..." John stood up straighter. A mousy little man was coming round the corner and headed towards to pub. He was flanked by a large black man in a trench coat.

"Sherlock, he's here. I think that's him. He's almost to the door."  
_  
[Excellent. Now, is he carrying a brief case, John? Quickly now!]_

"No he's-" John paused, snapping to attention. The mousy little man glanced across the street, briefly making eye contact with John and John tensed. In that second, John knew he had been made. The little man recognized him.

_[What John? What is it? John?! John!]_

"Bollocks!" John swore. The little man gave a cry of alarm and bolted up the street, bodyguard falling into a run just behind him. John pushed off the wall and sprinted after them.

"They've run," John panted out. Ahead of him the two men turned sharply round a corner and disappeared from sight. John took the corner wide, and ducked his head in anticipation of a blow.

The black man looked surprised as his fist swung harmlessly over John's head. Over the bodyguard's shoulder John could make out the mousy little drug lord slipping away down the street. John would have to make this quick.

Weaving sideways, John pulled his arms in close to his body and brought his fists up to guard his face. The black man recovered quickly, spinning around and throwing a solid looking punch at John's head. John tried to step back, but misjudged the man's reach. John winced as the blow glanced off his raised arms, pain flaring briefly in his wrist.

Using the opening after the blow, John jumped forward with a right hook. He caught the man right on the jaw and it felt like punching solid rock. Instead of dropping the man, he caught John's wrist and the two of them fell to the ground wrestling. This was going a lot worse than John had planned.

Then all of the sudden it was over. The man was pulled sharply away from John by a large man in a leather jacket and dark cap. John didn't stop to question his luck. He was on his feet in a flash running down the now empty street, hopeful of catching the mousy little druglord.

He caught sight of the man turning into a doorway. Blocking out Sherlock's electronic voice buzzing like a fly in his ear, John leapt up the steps and through the doorway. John caught up to the man in a dim hallway just inside the door. The man swung around, managing to catch John off guard with a ferocious outburst of aggression. The punch caught John in the jaw and for one second John's head exploded in a white burst of pain.

Training took over and John floored the man with an answering swing. A swift kick to the ribs kept the man on the ground. With calm purpose, John withdrew the Browning pistol from his waistband and leveled it carefully at the mousy man's head.

"Don't move. I have some questions for you." It hurt to say the words 'move', 'some', and 'questions'. John tested his lip with his tongue, feeling blood. He tensed and looked over his shoulder when he sensed a presence behind him.

It was the large tattooed man that had been sitting in the pub earlier that night, the one that John had been suspicious of. John carefully whipped the gun around to face him.

"Whoa there, 'is me John!" The man held his hands up in a peaceful gesture.

John lowered the pistol immediately, recognizing the voice but not recognizing the man. His head rang a little, muddled.

"Who?-"

"Its me, John. Angelo?" And suddenly it was obvious. It was like staring at some strange bizarro-world version of Angelo, like Angelo's long lost evil twin brother.

Angelo had a rough looking leather jacket on. There were tattoos on his neck and arms and several days worth of gruff beard growing on his face. A cap was pulled down over his brow and his greasy black ponytail hung low on his shoulders. The whole ensemble made him look every bit like the criminal John had been warned Angelo was, and not a bit like the placid restauranteur John thought he knew so well.

The drug lord groaned from his position on the floor as Sherlock stepped over the threshold and into the crowded hallway.

"I told you to wait for Angelo, John," His voice echoed in John's ear in a disorienting way and John plucked the electronic device out, letting it dangle from it's wire.

There was a lot of pushing and shoving after that. John found a warm, dry spot to sit down on the steps outside as Angelo and Sherlock manhandled drug lord. John rested his head in his hands, sighing. He'd have a split-lip for sure.

After a while there was a gentle tap on his shoulder, and John looked up to see Angelo smiling down at him.

"Been a while since I've been in a scrap, sorry I wasn't quicker. Not as spry as I used to be, mind you. Still," He sat down next to John, "You seemed well enough on your own, there."

John smiled. "I didn't know that was you. I thought..." He trailed off tiredly.

Angelo guffawed. "Just like Sherlock to leave a detail like_ that_ out."

The two of them were still chuckling when Sherlock emerged behind them. He looked down at John intently. He tutted, looking away.

"Come along, John. Tonight has been _utterly_ fruitless." He didn't wait for John to answer as he strode down the stairs and began walking into the dark night.

John rose unsteadily to his feet, thinking fondly of a hot cup of tea and his warm, dry bed. He held out his hand to bizarro Angelo and grinned.

"Guess this means I owe you, now."

Angelo smiled wolfishly at him. "Anything for my favorite customers."


End file.
